


The Roman Job

by O4amuse



Series: The Odd Jobs [1]
Category: Leverage, Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Dean, Dean Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Episode: s04e02 Are You There God? It's Me Dean Winchester, Episode: s04e04 Metamorphosis, Episode: s07e11 Adventures in Babysitting, Leviathans, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sophie Devereaux, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Season/Series 07, Season/Series 08, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-01 20:39:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6535477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/O4amuse/pseuds/O4amuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re not the only ones here," Eliot said. "There’s two dead guys outside the back door.”<br/>“We were here first,” came Parker’s voice, sounding slightly petulant.<br/>“Both killed with a single knife wound. Winchesters.”<br/>“I thought that was a type of gun, not a knife,” Hardison said, looking confused.<br/>“Actually it’s a person.”<br/>“You can tell a specific person from the type of knife wound they left?” Parker said skeptically.<br/>“It’s a very distinctive knife."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They’d been working this job four months, running a long con. It was the longest they’d ever done together, though not the longest Sophie’d run, and there were times when people - Parker, especially - got very impatient. But Nate had taken one look at Sucracorp’s systems, and the background of Dick Roman, CEO, and laid down the law. No cutting corners on this job. 

The biotechnician, Sarah, who’d brought them the job, was still working in the labs, keeping her head down. She’d managed to get a couple of bits of information out, and helped get Hardison a job in the IT department. But as time passed she got more and more scared. People who asked too many questions got fired, she said, or seemed to undergo some kind of retraining that completely changed their attitudes. Sophie was concerned she was going to run, and she couldn’t altogether blame her.

The information they’d gathered on Sucracorp so far was very worrying. The change in chemical composition of certain sweeteners had been cleared for mass production, but the chemist they’d shown it to gave a list of side-effects a page long, all of them bad. As for Roman himself, he was charming, ruthless, and extremely intelligent. Nate had managed to get a meeting with him at the beginning of the con, posing as a researcher. He’d come back from that with a very long face and flatly refused to allow Sophie near the man. It was very frustrating.

But tonight was the night when all that waiting paid off. They’d finally got confirmation on where the results from the secret clinical trials were stored. Eliot and Parker were on their way into the warehouse to retrieve them, and Hardison was standing by with a global leak on social media.  Then the comms link crackled.

  “Nate. We got a problem.” 

  “What is it?” Nate said, gaze sharpening on the grainy security camera footage running on the screen in front of them.

  “We’re not the only ones here. There’s two dead guys outside the back door.”

  “We were here first,” came Parker’s voice, sounding slightly petulant. 

  “Keep going,” Nate said. “Just be careful.”

On the screen, two shadowy figures emerged from the bushes and slid up to the back door of the warehouse. One crouched over a sprawled body.

  “Fuck.” Eliot again, his voice loud with shock. 

  Nate straightened up. “Guys?”

  “Both killed with a single knife wound. Winchesters.”

  “I thought that was a type of gun, not a knife,” Hardison said, looking confused.

  “Actually it’s a person.”

  “You can tell a specific person from the type of knife wound they left?” Parker said skeptically.

  “It’s a very distinctive knife. Nate, I’m calling this off.”

  “What? No.”

  “We are not equipped to handle what’s in there.”

  “Dude, I am not about to waste the last four months of my time doing nine-to-five in a cubicle just because you got a little freaked,” Hardison said.

  “I don’t want to go back,” Parker objected.

  “My job is to keep you safe. Trust me when I say that building? Not safe.”

  Nate opened his mouth to object again but Sophie put out her hand. “Listen to him, Nate,” she said quietly. “He’s scared. Can you remember the last time Eliot was scared of anything?” 

  Nate met her eyes and nodded. “Okay. Come back, you two. We can discuss this when you’re home.”

Parker whined and Hardison gave Nate a disbelieving stare, but Sophie kept her eyes glued to the screen. The shadows of her teammates pulled away from the building and headed back into the underbrush. Two seconds later the back door opened and someone followed them. Sophie sat up, licking her lips.

  “Eliot, you’ve got company.”

  “Parker, get out of here,” the hitter said fiercely. 

  “I can help -”

  “I said go!” 

There was a frantic rustling sound as Parker ran through underbrush, and then a shout as Eliot engaged with his follower. Hardison flicked frantically through various traffic cams and CCTV, but they’d chosen that angle of approach specifically because it wasn’t under surveillance. Sophie bit her lip as more thuds and grunts came through the earpiece.

  “Eliot!” Nate called. “Talk to me!”

  “Son of a bitch won’t stay down,” Eliot growled. 

  “It’s just one guy,” Hardison said, looking worried. “You can totally take him.”

  “Dammit, Hardison, do you want to fight him? Salt, where’s the salt?”

  Sophie looked quizzically at Nate, raising an eyebrow.  _ Salt? _

Nate shrugged. There were a couple more sounds of impact, and Eliot gave a triumphant hah! Then he swore.

  “What the hell are you?”

  “Get down!” yelled a strange voice, filtered over the comms. There was a splashing sound, and then: “Run.”

  “Eliot?” Nate called. “Eliot!”

  “Talk to me, man,” Hardison said frantically, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Eliot? Parker? Somebody?”

  “I’m at the car,” Parker said. “Hang on… I can see Eliot running this way. There’s two guys behind him. Should I taser them?”

  “Parker, don’t taser anyone!” Eliot panted. “Start the damn car!”

Sophie gripped the edge of the table tightly, closing her eyes to focus on the picture being painted by audio. The noise of car doors slamming, the engine being gunned and pulling away. Heavy breathing, and some indistinct muttering from male voices in the background. Then Eliot inhaled deeply. 

  “What the hell was that? Why didn’t salt work?”

  There was a pause. “Fuck me,” said the stranger’s voice. “Eliot Spencer.”

  “Wait, you two know him?” Parker asked incredulously.

  Sophie opened her eyes and looked at Nate’s concerned expression. “Eliot? Is everything okay?”

  Eliot sighed. “Yeah. Guys, meet Dean and Sam Winchester.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Hardison looked up the Winchesters whilst waiting for everyone to get back.

  “Damn.” He gave a low whistle. “Nate, you gotta take a look at this.”

  “What is it?” Sophie asked, pouring herself a glass of wine in the kitchen.

  “These Winchester guys are bad mofos. I’m looking at the FBI file right now and I'm gonna say it again: damn.”

  “Tell me,” Nate said, rounding the table.

  “Murder, kidnapping, arson, B&E, credit card fraud, grave desecration, I mean, come on, man!”

  “Hmm.” Nate stroked his chin thoughtfully. “One escape from jail, multiple escapes from arrest.”

  Sophie came up to join them, frowning at the screen. “It says there Dean Winchester died back in 2005.”

  “Yeah, but the mug shots before and after are the same guy,” Hardison said. “Most recently wanted, alongside his brother Sam, for a serial-killer spree.” He gestured emphatically with his tablet. “I do not want these assholes in my personal space.”

  “I wonder how Eliot knows them,” Sophie said.

  “Eliot knows a lot of dangerous people,” Nate replied absently, still reading the screen. “Dad was an ex-Marine, some kind of survivalist fanatic, raised his kids on the road. Looks like the younger son got out for a while. Full ride to Stanford, so he’s smart. Then his girlfriend died in a house fire and he fell off the grid.”

  “And you do mean off the grid,” Hardison added, typing. “Outside of police reports, these guys have no digital footprint, I mean nothing. No social media, no bank accounts, no online subscriptions.”

  “What about hospital records?” Sophie suggested.

  “Nothing,” he said, drawing out the word in an exaggerated fashion. “Going off the credit card fraud thing, I’d say they’re used to working off false IDs.”

  “Nate,” Sophie said slowly, “are we really going to let them in here?”

  “I say hell no.”

  “This isn’t a democracy, Hardison,” Nate said. “Eliot said the building wasn’t safe but he let these two in the car with Parker. I don’t think they’re what he was worried about. If they’re hanging around that warehouse they clearly know something about Sucracorp, which could be useful.”

  “Uh-huh.” Hardison nodded jerkily, eyes wide. “'Scuse me if I just find myself a nice quiet panic room to hide in.”

Then Parker bounced into the room, followed by Eliot and the two newcomers. Hardison quickly wiped the screens to a cityscape view and backed into a wall. Nate straightened up, making himself as tall and broad as possible, but there was no way he could compete. Both the Winchesters were well over six-foot and as built as Eliot. They moved like him too, smoothly, with economy of effort and extended senses. They might have pretty faces - and oh, Sophie wasn’t blind, those bone structures were made for grifting - but there was no mistaking they were predators.

  “You must be Mr. Ford,” said the taller one, with a pleasant smile, holding out his hand. “I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean.”

  Nate shook, his expression not giving anything away. “How do you know Eliot?”

  “Bumped into him on a job, coupla years back,” Dean drawled, shooting an amused look at the scowling hitter.

  “‘Bumped into’,” Eliot muttered. “You mean ‘tackled to the floor’.”

  Dean grinned at him and Sophie drew a quick breath. The man was lethal when he smiled.

  “So,” Nate said casually, “what were you doing hanging around a Sucracorp warehouse?”

  “Could ask you the same thing,” Dean said, not shifting his focus.

  “Working a job,” Eliot said, squaring up. “You?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You should clear your team out,” Sam said to Nate. “We’ve got this.”

  “Excuse you?” Hardison piped up indignantly. “I have spent months, literally months, infiltrating that damn system. No way am I letting you neanderthals just trample all over my work.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said politely, which made Sophie blink, “but you don’t know what you’re getting into. Sucracorp is dangerous.”

  “This your kind of gig?” Eliot said in a low voice to Dean.

Something about his body language made Sophie look closer. He was standing with shoulders down, head lowered, arms relaxed. He wasn’t challenging Winchester, he was offering him the dominant position. Sophie fiddled with her earring thoughtfully. Who on earth where these people?

  “Eliot?” Nate said, voice level. “Could I have a word please?”

Sophie followed the two of them into the kitchen area, deliberately turning her back on the Winchesters. Eliot didn’t move to put himself between her and them, which reassured her slightly. They might be dangerous but they weren’t imminently dangerous.

  “Nate, I trust these guys,” Eliot said quietly.

  “Eliot!” Sophie raised her eyebrows. “You don’t trust anybody.”

  “Yeah, well…” He folded his arms belligerently. “They’re the exception.”

  “This is an important job,” Nate said. “Sucracorp is an international company and that compound-”

  “I know, okay? But if they’re here, that means there’s something even bigger going down. Something we aren’t up to dealing with.”

  Nate shook his head. “If you want me to pull the plug on a four month job, and let down our very frightened client, you’re going to have to give me more than that.”

  Eliot scowled fiercely. “You won’t believe me.”

  “Try me.”

Behind her there was a hurried conversation, too quiet for her to make out, and then her spine tingled. She turned quickly and was forced to look up a ridiculously long way as Sam Winchester loomed over her with a shy smile.

   _Shy?_ She thought, recalling the police report. _That face is clearly not to be trusted._

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but we’ve got a suggestion.”

  “Sam’s got a suggestion,” Dean yelled from the table where he was dipping enthusiastically into the open chips, to Hardison’s evident but silent outrage.

  “Yes?” Nate said.

  “Dean and I, we’ve been looking for some information for a while, without much luck. So we thought -”

  “You thought!” Dean called again.

  Sam rolled his eyes. “ _I_ thought your team might be able to help us.”

  “No,” Eliot said flatly.

  Sophie looked at him in surprise. “I thought you trusted them.”

  “I do. But I’m not putting you in the middle of their business. No way.”

  “Your friend over there said he’s in Sucracorp’s systems,” Sam said. “You might not even have to set foot inside the building.”

  “What can you tell us about Richard Roman?” Nate said thoughtfully.

  Dean wandered over, still holding the chips. “Oh, we got tons of dirt on Dick.”

  Eliot gave him a furious look. “No.”

  “Dude, chill. I’m all for getting the civilians out. This is Sammy’s call.”

  “We’re hardly civilians, Mr. Winchester,” Nate said. “How long will your job take?”

  Dean shrugged. “Won’t know until we find this intel.”

  “And once you’ve found it,” Eliot growled, “will it be safe for us to go in?”

  The Winchesters exchanged glances. “Safe as anywhere else,” Sam said at last. Dean pulled a face and ate a mouthful of chips.

  “Okay,” Nate said, straightening up. “You tell us everything you know about Sucracorp’s CEO, whilst Hardison looks for this information. At the end of that conversation, we’ll reassess.”

  “Awesome,” Dean said. “Go on, Sammy, get the ball rolling.”

Sam gave his brother a look that Sophie expertly interpreted as exasperated sibling affection, and wandered back towards Hardison with Nate in tow. She followed them slowly, leaning against the stairwell within careful earshot of the kitchen.

  “Anyone’d think you were trying to get rid of us,” Dean said.

  “I don’t want my team getting hurt,” Eliot growled.

  “Saving people, remember?”

  “Collateral damage, remember?”

  There was a rustle as Dean put down the chips. “I’m sorry, dude. I am.”

  “Yeah.” Eliot sighed, an oddly soft sound. “Me too.”

  “We good?” And it wasn’t a challenge or a threat, as it so easily could have been. There was caring behind the question.

  A long pause, which made Sophie itch to turn around. “I guess. Yeah, man, we’re good.”

  “Sweet. I missed your cooking, El, you have no idea.”

Then Dean strode past her with a shout to his brother, chucking the chip packet at Hardison to make him flinch and muscling in on Nate’s head-of-the-table position. Sophie finally risked a glance backwards. Eliot was leaning up against the kitchen cabinets, rubbing the back of his neck. The look he sent after Winchester was an expression Sophie’d never seen on her friend’s face before. On any other man, she’d have said it was wistfulness. On Eliot Spencer… it was more likely intent.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam wrote down a sequence of numbers on a slip of paper and handed it to Hardison, who looked at it blankly.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “We need to know what it means. Is it a licence number, a job reference, what? I’ve checked the easy stuff, like Roman’s passport and social security numbers, that kind of thing, but I can’t get inside his systems. It’s gotta be something to do with Sucracorp’s plans.”

  “I mean, I can run a basic search, but do you know how many documents are likely to have that combination somewhere?”

  Sam shook his head. “That’ll be the whole number.”

  “Okay.” Hardison tapped it into his tablet. “Let’s see what falls out.”

  “Where did you get the number, if you don’t know what it means?” Sophie asked. “How do you know it’s important?”

  Sam glanced round at his brother, who was talking to Nate and not listening. Raw grief flashed into his eyes and then the shutters came down again. “A friend got it for us.”

  “And this friend can't help you out because?” Hardison asked, not looking up from his tablet.

  “Roman shot him.”

  “Nate said he was ruthless.” Sophie put a comforting hand on Sam’s arm. Impressive muscles, but too thin. “I’m so sorry.”

  He forced a smile. “Thanks. Don’t… don’t mention it to Dean? He’s taken it pretty hard.”

  As if on cue, his brother looked up from the table with a frown. “Sammy? You okay?”

Sam gave Sophie another smile and turned away to join that conversation. Hardison leaned in.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting a seriously weird vibe off these guys. They ain’t your average hitters.”

  “Jack of all trades,” Sophie murmured, tracking Sam thoughtfully. “Have you seen how they move around each other? They’re so used to working as a team, they don’t have to think about where the other one is. Dean stands in front, he’s the protector, but Sam takes the initiative just as often. Interesting power dynamic, actually.”

  “That’s your ‘I’m analysing the mark’ voice,” Hardison said in a nervous tone. “Need I remind you that these guys are serial killers?”

  “All the more reason to make them trust me.” She smiled brilliantly and went to stand next to Eliot at the table.

  “That’s why Roman Enterprises got into the agricultural industry,” Dean was saying emphatically. “To take control of the food supply.”

  “We had a chemist look at the formula,” Nate said. “It’s dangerous, certainly, but you’re talking about deliberately drugging an entire population. What would he gain from doing that?”

  “He wants to shove this crap into everyone’s bloodstreams until we’re so doped up we either don’t notice or don’t care what else he’s doing.” Dean thumped the table. “You need to think bigger.”

  “This isn’t just about the population of America,” Sam added, more softly. “Sucracorp has an international presence, and that’s just one company. Roman Enterprises has been pursuing a very aggressive mergers and acquisitions policy over the last year. It’s only a matter of time before he controls the majority of the global food supply.”

  “For what?” Nate repeated. “Where’s the financial gain in making the world fat and stupid?”

  Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Really, Nate? If everyone’s stupid, they’ll buy whatever you tell them to.”

  “And if they’re drugged on your brand, they’re hooked,” Eliot added.

  The Winchesters shook their heads. “It’s not about the money,” they said in unison.

  Sophie and Nate blinked at them, and Eliot chuckled. “Yeah, kinda freaky, isn’t it?”

  “Power, then?” Nate asked. “There's rumours he might go for the presidency, next election.”

  “He wants to be top of the food chain,” Dean said, shooting a sideways glance at Sam. “Hell, he reckons he already is. Just gotta make it official.”

  “You’re lying,” Sophie said, narrowing her eyes. “No… not lying, but not telling the truth either.”

  The brothers looked at her in surprise. Eliot patted her shoulder once. “Sophie’s the best,” he said, giving them a brief smirk. “Now, I think I know what you aren’t saying, and why you aren’t saying it, so how about this - you and me go have a little talk, and then I’ll interpret. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Dean said, straightening up immediately. “I saw a bar downstairs.”

  Eliot pulled a face and looked at Sam. “He still drinking?”

  Sam shrugged. “Nothing’s gotten easier.”

  “I don’t drink on the job, Mom.” Dean slapped Eliot’s back and they headed out of the door.

  Sam rubbed at his face and gave Nate an apologetic smile. “Sorry. But there’s some things you won’t believe, coming from us. Better if El translates.”

  “That’s the second time in twenty minutes someone’s told me I won’t believe them,” Nate said.

  “It’s nothing personal. The jobs we do are, well, a bit different.”

  “Tell me how you met Eliot,” Sophie said with a smile, patting Sam’s arm again. Yes, very nice.

  “We were on a job in Illinois. This… woman had done something which resulted in a lot of hunters getting killed. I guess she saw El as a threat too, I don’t know. Anyway, he got caught up in it. He was lucky, we weren’t even looking for him, but we found him in time. He stuck around for a while after that, even did a couple of jobs with us. He and Dean hit it off. Dean’d just, um…” Sam hesitated, thoughts turning inwards. The twist at the corner of his mouth suggested they weren’t good thoughts. “He’d just got back from a… a P.O.W. kinda thing. He was in a bad place. El understood, better than I did at the time. He really helped.”

There were a couple of things in that little story that Sophie wanted to examine more closely. Twice, Sam had paused and his right foot shifted - the same tell Dean displayed when not-lying earlier. Then there was that telling phrase, ‘at the time’, which suggested Sam’s understanding of prisoner-of-war experiences was rather more thorough now. But Sophie was pretty sure she wouldn’t get straight answers to either of those, so she went with the easiest.

  “You said hunters were being killed. Animal hunters?”

  Sam shot her a surprisingly flustered look. “I… no. Dean and I, we’re hunters. Um, bounty hunters.”

  “Really?” Nate folded his arms, unimpressed. Sophie glared at him.

  “Hey, how’s that search coming?” Sam called to Hardison, turning away.

  “Hold on, hold on, I just need to… hah!” Hardison stabbed at his tablet and looked up at the screen in triumph. “Okay, so there were a whole bunch of invoices and trial reports and shit that had 45489 in them, but nothing with only those numbers. However, because I am a genius, I added in a little algorithm to find the next best fit, and there is one document which has 454896 as the title.”

  Sam moved closer as Hardison brought the document up onto the screen. “What is it?”

  “It’s a land registry certificate for ownership of a field in Wisconsin. So I cross-referenced and Sucracorp has planning permission to build a processing plant there. There’s surveyor’s reports and blueprints and all that jazz.”

  “Yahtzee,” Sam said, staring. “Good work.”

  “Thanks, man.” Hardison preened slightly. “You know, most of this was behind Roman’s personal security clearance. Why would the CEO of a global company care about the building of another warehouse?”

  “Because it’s not just a warehouse,” Sam said absently, striding towards the door. “I need to talk to Dean.”

  As soon as he was gone, Sophie whacked Nate sharply on the arm. “Don’t challenge him like that. These guys need the softly, softly approach.”

  “I want them out,” Nate said, spreading his hands. “We’re not running a con on them, Sophie. They tell us what they know and then they’re gone. There isn’t time to play nice.”

  “Hey, when you’re talking to psychopaths, there is always time to play nice,” Hardison said emphatically. “The Winchesters don’t just kill you, they dig up your body and burn the bones. Let’s not push anybody into a potentially murderous burny corner, okay?”

  “I don’t think they’d kill us,” came a disembodied voice.

  Nate looked up at the air vent. “Parker? Where’ve you been?”

  The thief pushed the grill off and settled her chin back onto her hands. “I went to listen to Eliot in the bar. Dean super-likes him. I don’t think they’d do anything to upset him.”

  “Could you come down before I get a crick in my neck?”

  Parker heaved an exaggerated sigh and dropped lightly into the room. “Better?”

  “Thank you.” Nate smiled. “So, what were they talking about?”

  She brightened, eyes shining. “You’re never going to believe me.”

  Nate sighed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for this chapter goes to lostinscotland, for giving me the idea. See, chaps, I do take suggestions! :-)

_Three years earlier_

 

Eliot held out a beer. Dean took it with a grateful nod, swigged, then pressed the ice pack against his shoulder again. Eliot sat down next to him on the porch and popped the cap on his own bottle.

  “You okay?”

  Dean snorted. “This ain’t the first time I’ve had my shoulder dislocated.”

  “I don’t usually damage my sparring partner.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, dude.” Dean began to shrug and rapidly changed his mind. Sure, he’d had worse, a lot worse, but it still fucking hurt. “I was pushing.”

  “You’re not bad. Marines?”

  “Dad was.”

  “Plus a whole lot of street fighting. Your defence is pretty solid, although you leave your right side open more than the left.”

  “Sam’s normally on my right.”

Dean knew his little brother’s left-hand defence was weak for the same reason. He wondered briefly how the kid had fared whilst he’d been away, whether there were any new scars on Sammy’s ribs, but the edges of his vision began to pulse red and he pushed the thought away hard. Beside him, Eliot jerked his chin in acknowledgement and swallowed another mouthful of beer. It felt a little weird to have someone on his left, the unfamiliar warmth of another person against his bare arm. Not bad-weird, just… weird. Which pretty much summed up his attitude to the man. It felt weird to trust anyone that wasn’t family, but he wouldn’t have suggested sparring with a fighter as skilled as Eliot if he didn’t trust him. He shifted slightly on the step. He’d be feeling the bruises for a week.

  “Is Sam going to give me one of those annoyed looks when he sees your shoulder?” Eliot said, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  “Don’t tell me you can’t handle the puppy-dog eyes?”

  “Seriously, man, they should send him to Iraq to do interrogations.”

  Dean shook his head, amused. “Works like a freaking charm with witnesses. He’s way better at that side of the job than me. Don’t tell him I said so.”

  “Obviously.”

They lapsed into companionable silence again, watching the sky turn crimson and gold whilst the beers went down. It was nice. Peaceful, even. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this relaxed. It'd been pretty full on since he got back from Hell, what with angels and Satanic seals and the freaking apocalypse. Hell itself… he wasn’t thinking about that. Before, there’d been a year of increasingly frantic searching for a way out of his deal - mostly on Sam’s part, but that meant neither of them got much down-time. And before that, there’d been Azazel, and Sam’s brief stint at being dead, and wacky psychic demon-army shit all over the show. This sitting with a buddy and a beer as the sun set, it was kind of awesome. Dean felt a stirring of awkwardness at the unfamiliarity of it, an urge to say something, break the quiet gently before it got broken hard.

  “So, apart from defending my right, what else do I need to fix?”

  Eliot looked at him sideways, face partially obscured by a sweep of hair. “You sure?”

  “I may have way more specialist knowledge but you can take me apart in a straight fight. You proved that when we met.” Eliot smirked and drained his bottle. Dean nudged him in the ribs with an elbow. “Asshole. Anyway, yeah, I’m sure. Help me get better. Could save our lives.”

  “Okay. You always target the chest or the head. They’re the easiest areas to defend.”

  “Most of the stuff we hunt, you can only kill it by stabbing the heart or taking off the head.”

  “Sure, but from what you’ve been telling me there’s a lot of things could still be slowed down by taking out their knees, for example. That makes the kill easier.”

  Dean nodded, conceding the point. “Not demons, probably not werewolves, but yeah, I guess that’d work on a rugaru or a wendigo. Ghouls too.”

  “Right. Aim low. Nobody guards their ankles.”

  “How d’you break an ankle without getting inside grappling distance? Wendigos have bastard long arms.”

Eliot got up and moved smoothly out onto the lawn, jerking his head for Dean to follow. Dean set his beer and ice-pack aside eagerly. It was good, the rough and tumble of bodies, anchoring him back into his flesh, reminding him what it really felt like. A world away from the rack and the chains… He blinked at the red and black and heat that flickered across his vision, but it was in his nostrils now, choking and real, more real than the grass and the sky and all the living things. He could smell the retching-sweet copper and bitter charring, feel the gritty slickness of it against his skin, there were brands around his wrists, on his cheek…

  “Dean! Come on, man, snap out of it.” Eliot slapped him again, just enough sting in it to ground him. Narrowed blue eyes bore into his. Not an unnatural heavenly ice, but warm and human. “You with me?”

  “Yeah.” Dean drew in an unsteady breath and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “It’s cool, man.” Eliot patted his cheek, gave him a brief reassuring nod, and moved back. “You ready?”

And this was something Sammy never got. He hovered and worried, and waited with crooked brows for Dean to talk about it, to drag all that… _that_ out into the daylight, lay it bare and festering and repulsive. Eliot made him move, pushed his body until there wasn’t room for thought or memory. Eliot _knew_. Dean could kis-

An elbow rammed towards his face and he leaned backwards instinctively. A roundhouse kick swept his right ankle out and, already off balance, he slammed onto his back. He rolled, seeing Eliot stamp (pulling the blow, he knew) where his ankle had been. Rolling up onto one knee, he launched his good shoulder towards Eliot’s stomach in a low tackle. An open palm to the side of his head knocked him off course and he stumbled past. Another kick to the back of his knee and he was down again. A heavy weight pressed sharply into the small of his back, pinning him.

  “About now, I’d take a knife to the hamstring or Achilles tendon,” Eliot growled, leaning closer. “A hard kick or a crowbar to the ankle works too.”

Dean panted, inhaling the fresh taste of grass. His shoulder throbbed, reminding him off how awesome and not-tortured his body felt. He was held down, at the mercy of another man, and he wasn’t afraid because that other man was Eliot and he _trusted_ him. He’d never expected to be able to trust anyone ever again.

  “El…” he said, not sure what he wanted to say.

Eliot went still, not breathing for six long seconds, and Dean knew he didn’t have to say anything. Strong fingers wrapped gently around the back of his neck. Dean closed his eyes and basked in their warmth, the slip of sweat between their skins. Something began to uncurl, deep in his stomach, something else he hadn’t ever thought to feel after Hell. Something alive.

  “Hey, guys?” Sam called, opening the porch door. Then he laughed. “I’d cry uncle, Dean. El’s got you good.”

Eliot’s weight disappeared and Dean sat up. The hitter held out a hand, eyes glittering with amusement. Dean took it and allowed Eliot to haul him to his feet.

  “Yeah,” he said, not looking away. “Yeah, I think he has.”


	5. Chapter 5

When Eliot came back from his little confab, he flatly refused to tell the rest of the team anything. He and Nate had a stand-up argument, with raised voices and wild gesticulations, whilst the Chuckle brother loomed in the background. Sophie’s attempts to disarm the situation fell on deaf ears and eventually she retreated to the wall, where Hardison and Parker were huddled.

   “Why won’t he tell us?” Parker whispered, looking at Eliot with a distressed expression. “Doesn’t he trust us?”

   “Oh, Parker, of course he does.” Sophie surveyed the scene. “Look at the set of his shoulders. He’s not really confronting Nate, he’s trying to protect him. All of us. Whatever’s inside Sucracorp, he thinks it’s more dangerous than we can handle.”

   Hardison snorted. “Well, that’s just insulting. Danger is my middle name.”

   “No, it isn’t,” Parker said. “It’s-“

   “The thing is,” Sophie said, cutting off the tangent, “I think he might be right.”

   “Say what?” Hardison stared at her.

   “So does Nate. He’s already resigned to losing this argument, you can see it in his neck.” Sophie nodded towards the Winchesters. “They’re used to jobs where getting killed is a real possibility. The most we usually risk is arrest.”

   “I’m sorry, are you talking about the psychos who, according to Parker, believe in ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night?”

   Parker shrugged. “They could be real.”

   “Girl, you did not just say that.”

   “Your computer games are full of stuff like that. Magic and monsters.”

   “Dungeons & Dragons,” Hardison corrected, “but I don’t think it’s real. Because I’m not crazy.”

   “’There are stranger things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy,’” Sophie said absently, focusing on Nate.

   “Who the hell’s Horatio?” Hardison asked, wrinkling his nose in confusion.

   “Ssh.”

Sophie waved him down as Nate scrubbed at his hair with a sigh.

   “Fine. But if you don’t come back with the evidence we need, I’m sending Parker in.”

   Eliot nodded jerkily. “We'll get it. Hardison, I need button cams and comms.”

   “Oh, oh!” Hardison folded his arms. “You’re cheating on us with your ex, and now you want to use my equipment?”

   To Sophie’s delight, Eliot turned an exquisite shade of pink and Dean let out a stifled cough. “Dammit, Hardison!”

   “Fine.” The hacker dug into his pocket and produced a handful of tiny tech. “But I want these back in pristine condition, you read me?”

   “Yeah, yeah, you break it, you bought it.” Eliot casually chucked them across the room to the Winchesters, two at a time. Hardison glared.

   “Neat,” Sam said, inspecting the ear piece. “You made this?”

   “No, I picked it up at the local Walmart.”

   “Awesome.” Dean attached the camera to his jacket. “Okay, El, let’s roll.”

   “Why do you call him El?” Parker demanded, in what Sophie thought was a rather proprietary fashion. “His name’s Eliot.”

   Sam grinned at her, his face losing ten years. “Because we worked out that, if he was El, the three of us were LSD. We were very drunk and for about two hours it was the funniest thing in the world.”

   “I’d just had the ghost of my old sergeant try to rip my heart out,” Eliot growled. “Hallucinogens seemed appropriate. Are we going, or what?”

   “You’re going in now?” Parker asked. “It’ll be light soon.”

   “Nah, we’ll go tomorrow,” Dean said. “But we got some prep to do first. Knives to sharpen, chemicals to mix, you know how it is.”

   “No,” Hardison said emphatically. “No, we do not.”

   “Which is why you’re not coming,” Eliot said, with a final nod to Nate. “See you in twenty-four hours.”

They watched in silence as the three men filed out of the apartment. The moment it closed, Nate turned to Sophie.

   “Which one’s more of a threat?”

   “Sam,” she said immediately. “Dean’s lethal, but he’s governed by his emotions which makes him predictable. Sam thinks first.”

   Nate nodded his agreement. “Okay, Parker, I want you to shadow them. If they separate, stay with Sam but do not engage. Your priority is to keep Eliot safe, make sure he comes home. The Sucracorp evidence is a distant second. Sophie, Hardison, I want you on the next plane to Wisconsin.”

   Sophie put her hands on her hips. “You’re not sending us out of harm’s way.”

   “No.” He gestured towards the screens, where the information about Sucracrop’s new processing plant was still up. “That field has a surveyor visit booked for next week. Amanda Willer. Make it tomorrow. I want to know what’s so important that it makes Eliot shut us out, and has men like the Winchesters running scared.”

* * *

 

The obvious answer, Sophie concluded as she stared out of the rental car the following afternoon, was not much. It was just a field. A couple of acres, or hectares, or whatever the technical term was for flat ground in the middle of nowhere with no record that Hardison could find of oil, or coal, or anything precious below the surface.

   “That’s strange,” Hardison said from the passenger seat, staring at his laptop.

   “What is?”

   “I was just doing a sweep, as I do, being thorough and professional…”

   “Skip to the end, Hardison.”

   “This field has more cameras on it than most high-street banks.”

   “That is strange.” Sophie tapped her fingers on the wheel. “What do you think, Nate?”

   “It means they aren’t hiding anything here,” he said in her earpiece. “You don’t watch something you want to hide, you watch something you think other people might be interested in.”

   “But there’s nothing here!”

   “We must be missing something. Hardison, keep digging. Sophie, go take a closer look. Maybe it’s only visible up close.”

   “Fine,” she said grumpily, climbing out of the car. “What am I looking for?”

   “Not sure yet. Take samples of the grass - maybe that’s it.”

   “I don’t think Eliot would get this worked up over grass.”

She made her way down into the field, surveyor’s clipboard in hand, and looked around. Even closer, she still couldn’t see anything remarkable or odd. She picked a handful of grass and frowned at it. Grass all looked the same to her but maybe Nate was right. He usually was, it was what made him so infuriating. He really kept her on her toes.

   “Sophie, you’ve got company,” he said softly in her ear. “A car just arrived on the other side of the field. Hardison, stay put for now. Let’s see if they can shed any light on this.”

   Two men in jeans and jackets strode towards her. “Who are you?” one said as they got close.

   “I’m here to carry out a survey.”

   The man leaned forward and flared his nostrils. “I don’t know you.”

   “Amanda Willer.” She held out her hand.

   He took it and didn’t let go. “No. Amanda Willer’s been replaced with one of us. You’re still human.”

Sophie blinked. _Ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night_ , something whispered. Her hindbrain abruptly flooded her body with fight-or-flight adrenalin. She tugged at her hand and his grip tightened painfully, dragging her towards him. She swung at his jaw but the other man grabbed her free arm and twisted it behind her. She cried out.

   “Sophie? Sophie!” Nate and Hardison shouted in her ear.

  The man leaned in with a wide smile, breath reeking of meat. “I think Mr. Roman would like a word with you.”

A foul-smelling rag was pressed over her nose and mouth. She gave a muffled scream and thrashed as hard as she could, but the cloying darkness rolled in swiftly and smothered her deep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for this chapter goes to treefrogie84, who reminded me about ‘spark’.

Sophie resurfaced groggily, but with enough sense to keep her eyes shut and her body still. Shifting very slightly, she could tell she was in a padded office chair. She wasn’t tied up or restrained in any way, which was a huge relief. An air-con unit hummed gently in the background but there were no other sounds. Heart racing, she cracked an eyelid to peer out.

A floor-to-ceiling window ran the length of the room on her left, showing the night sky. Opposite her was an impressive wooden desk, behind which lounged Roman with his white-toothed smile.

 “Welcome to Sucracorp, Lady Prentiss.”

  Sophie abandoned any attempt at dissimulation and sat up straight. “Good evening, Mr. Roman.”

  “Call me Dick.”

  “Dick.” She crossed her legs and looked at him levelly. “I assume you know why I’m here.”

  His grin widened. “Sarah Green started asking questions and brought them to Nathan Ford. I had her copied months ago. But that’s not really why you’re here.” He prowled round the desk to lean against it’s front. “You’re here, Charlotte, because you made friends with the wrong people. I was quite happy for your little investigation to run its course. Someone was always going to start digging and, once your findings had been discredited, no one would try again. But you got involved with the Winchesters.” He leaned forwards, eyes bright and cheerful. “That was a mistake.”

   _Nate was right_ , Sophie thought on the edge of panic. _This man is beyond my control._ But she hadn’t become the best grifter in the business by losing her nerve that easily. She raised her chin with a cool smile. “I think you know that isn’t entirely true.”

  He sat back with gesture. “Enlighten me.”

  “The Winchesters neither know me nor have any investment in my continued well-being. Which, in their eyes, makes me useful for one thing.”

  Roman shook his head. “They wouldn’t use another human as bait. They aren’t ruthless enough.”

  She raised a perfect eyebrow. “Don’t underestimate the levels of hatred you inspire in people, Dick. You did kill their friend, and Dean takes that sort of thing very personally.”

  Roman narrowed his eyes and pushed himself off the desk. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said, and strode out of the room.

Sophie hurried to the window and fumbled with the catch. It slid open and she stepped out onto a narrow metal balcony five storeys up. The cold wind tugged at her hair and she swallowed back the fear.

  “Nate?”

  “Sophie!” A chorus of voices, in varying frequencies of relief. “Where are you?” Nate demanded.

  “Roman’s office.”

  “Okay, stay put, Parker’s coming to get you.”

  “I’m not spending another minute in that man’s company,” she hissed.

  “We’ll keep him occupied,” drawled a deep voice. “El and me are about to make a bit of a bang.”

  Sophie bit her lip. “I might have given him the idea that you were using me as a distraction whilst you did something of the kind. He’s on his way down now.”

  “Awesome. El, might wanna shorten those fuses some.”

  “You think?” Eliot snapped.

  “Hold up, guys,” came Hardison’s voice. “I’m tapped into the security cameras. He’s heading back to his office.”

  “Parker?” Sophie called.

  “I need another ten minutes,” the thief said, a touch breathless.

Sophie glanced back into the room. For some reason, she couldn’t shake the memory of Sam Winchester standing in front of her with bowed head, saying: _Roman shot him_. Every instinct screamed at her to go NOW.

There was a vertical drainage pipe about four feet along the building. She kicked off her shoes, hiked up her skirt, and climbed precariously over the side of the balcony. A gust of wind blew her hair into her face and she bit back a gasp as her balance wavered. With one hand wrapped around the railing, she stretched out as far as she could. Her fingertips brushed the solid plastic, then gripped. A moment of hesitation, then she transferred both hands and her weight to the pipe. That left her facing straight down, five storeys to concrete, and vertigo whirled up out of the night to curdle in her stomach.

  “Sophie, what are you doing?” Nate said with artificial calm.

  “Roman’s almost in the room,” Hardison added.

That was enough incentive to move her feet from the balcony to the pipe. But there were no handholds and she slipped half a meter, the plastic slippery under her sweating palms. She squeaked involuntarily, then closed her eyes and made a concerted effort to calm her breathing.

_Down is good. Down is away. You’re not going to fall. Down is good._

  “Sophie!”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. Parker, if you could hurry it up…”

  There were footsteps on metal to her left, and then a delighted laugh. “Grifter and escape artist, I see.”

Sophie squinted back through her hair. Roman was leaning casually against the railing, smiling at her. His white teeth almost glowed in the darkness. _Just like the Cheshire Cat_ , she thought absently.

  “You’re special, Lady Prentiss. You have that spark, that thing that makes some humans so special. I could give someone all of your knowledge and experience, and they still wouldn’t be able to do what you do. People like you are impossible to copy.”

  “So I should hope,” she said, a trifle breathless. Her toes scrabbled for purchase.

  Roman shook his head. “I find that very inconvenient. Fortunately, in your case, there’s a very simple answer.”

   _He’s going to kill me._ The thought was remarkably calm. _I can’t show fear. Nate wouldn’t show fear. Nor would Eliot or Parker. I can’t let them down. I hope my real funeral gets a better showing than the fake one._

An almighty noise, felt as much as heard, cracked the night. White, yellow, red rolled up into the sky in a spectacular fireball, streaming thick grey smoke. Roman snarled, the genial facade dissolving into something primal and furious and chilling. Sophie could dimly hear whooping over the comms, shouts of “Eat that, Dick!” from Dean, Nate calling her name with increasing urgency. Then Parker was there, wrapping both arms around her waist, and they fell in a soft hiss of ropes towards the ground. Sophie staggered as they landed, head spinning. Parker grabbed her wrist and towed her bodily away from the burning building.

  “Parker?” Nate said over comms.

  “Got her,” the thief said cheerfully. “We’re heading for the car now.”

  “Well done. What about the evidence?”

  “I emailed it to the address Hardison gave me,” Sam shouted over a background of roaring flames. “CCTV footage and files.”

  “Hang on,” Hardison said. “Yup, I got… Wait, they’ve been testing on people? Jesus H. Christ, that old woman in the corner’s dead!”

  “That enough for our purposes?” Nate said.

  “Hell yeah. I can kick up a storm on social media with this.”

  “Do it. The rest of you, back here now.”

  “On our way,” Eliot said.

Then Sophie was at the car, and Parker had the front passenger door open and was pushing her into the seat.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted, but her hands were cold and her voice was shaking.

  “Of course you are,” Parker said, giving her a bottle of water.

  “You’ll be home soon, Sophie,” Nate told her gently over the comms.

Three figures appeared, briefly silhouetted against the flames, and the arsonists were with them, piling into the back of the car in a tumble of adrenalin-fuelled limbs and soot-smeared grins, smelling of sweat and smoke and petrol. Parker swung into the driver’s seat and the wheels spun as they skidded away. Sophie watched the firelight retreat in the rearview mirror, goosebumps still prickling up her spine, and wondered if Roman knew where they lived. Her gaze dropped to the back seat.

Sam had his head back, hair flared over the headrest, eyes closed and dark-circled. Next to him, Dean was spilling a vicious joy from every micro-expression, fingers curling and uncurling into fists on his thighs. Then Eliot, serious and intent, pushed his hair back with both hands, reached for Dean’s face, and stopped his laughter with a kiss.

Dean’s restless fingers froze. Eliot pulled back and Sophie caught a glimpse of wide eyes and parted lips, an expression wiped clean by surprise. Then, with a muttered “fucking _finally_ ,” Dean wrapped his hands around Eliot’s jaw and hauled him close. The second kiss was deeper, hungrier, all tongues and teeth and bunching muscle, intensely private.

Sophie reluctantly slid her scrutiny sideways to where, eyes still closed, Sam was smiling softly. Parker nudged her with an elbow.

  “See?” she said. “I told you Dean super-liked him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend taking a look at 'I read it in the line of your hands' before moving on to Chapter 7. It's not essential but it does help. 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/6598405


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend taking a look at 'I read it in the line of your hands' before reading Chapter 7. It's not essential but it does help. 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/6598405

The following week was marked by a social media storm of epic proportions, which Hardison proudly claimed was some of his finest work. There were news articles, mom blogs, petitions and marches. Sophie popped up to Washington to keep things moving in the political arena, and ensured that Dick Roman was summoned to an enquiry.

The results of that enquiry were never made public.

Hardison hacked into the surveillance cameras at the field in Wisconsin, and confirmed there was no further activity there. But he also found records in Sucracorp’s system of three other land purchases in neighbouring states. Sam explained, with sad eyes, that the new processing plants were essentially slaughterhouses for humans. The formula was intended to make them so fat and slow that they’d march obediently to the chop. Nate had trouble accepting the idea that Dick Roman was a cannibal. Sophie didn’t. She remembered the look on Roman’s face when the factory exploded, and learned a new name: _leviathan_.

Eliot and Dean weren’t around much. Sam asked, with tired amusement, if he could please borrow Nate’s couch. He and Hardison talked Harry Potter and esoteric languages. The two of them played Mario Kart with Parker and lost. Sam privately told Sophie he was partly there to bodyguard, in case Roman found the apartment. He kept an industrial-sized bottle of chemicals behind the sofa.

Ten days after climbing off Sucracorp’s balcony, Sophie walked into the apartment to find Eliot cooking enchiladas with a look of stony concentration.

  “Hello,” she said, putting down her bag. “Where’s Dean?”

  “They’ve gone,” Eliot said without inflection. “Had to take care of Roman.”

  Sophie frowned. “I thought we already did.”

  “That enquiry’s not gonna stop him. It just slowed him down a little. This is what they do - kill the things that are too weird for the law.”

  “Eliot,” she said softly, leaning her hip against the counter, “they can handle themselves, you know that. He’ll come back.”

  He glanced sideways at her for a fraction of a second. “Yeah.”

A week became a fortnight became a month, became two. Eliot and Dean texted or talked at least once a day, usually more. Sophie always knew when it was Dean because, even if Eliot didn’t smile, something around his eyes softened a little in a way that made Sophie want to slap Dean silly for leaving, even if it was for a good reason.

They took on other jobs - small scale, keeping their heads down, not drawing Roman’s attention. Eliot passed on the news that the Winchesters had found a weapon to take him down, since apparently normal ones didn’t work on leviathans.

One Wednesday he got a text at 10pm and told everyone “they’re going in,” in a growl that completely failed to hide how on edge he was. That night Hardison and Nate stayed up with him to watch the football. Sophie found them all asleep on the sofa when she arrived the next morning. She decided to leave them and went over to the kitchen to make coffee.

  The ring of Eliot’s phone had him immediately on his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Sam.”

He froze, his back to Sophie. He held still, every muscle screaming, for twenty long seconds. Sophie realised she’d stopped breathing. Then he hurled the phone at the wall with all his considerable strength, and the pieces scattered. Nate and Hardison startled awake, grunting, and Hardison reached out a hand.

  “What’s up, man?”

Eliot’s face was hidden by his hair. His fists clenched tightly, arms cording. Movements stiff with restrained violence, he walked out of the apartment, leaving the door open. Nate looked towards Sophie, who brought him a coffee.

  “Sam Winchester phoned,” she said softly.

  Hardison staggered upright. “I’ll go after him.”

  “No, let Sophie go. He’s less likely to physically lash out at her.”

  “Eliot’s not going to hit me,” Hardison said. “I’m his friend.”

  “Right now, he can’t remember that.” Nate nodded at her. “Good luck. Try to keep him out of prison.”

Eliot hadn’t run as far as she thought he might. She found him in the bar downstairs, huddled in a corner booth with a bottle of vodka in front of him. His shoulders were high and bunched, arms braced on the table with his hair almost brushing them. She slid into the other side and waited patiently. The first priority was to defuse the bomb; damage control and comfort could come later. She listened to Eliot’s harsh breathing and wondered if the words existed to comfort him.

  He drained the shot glass with a harsh twist of the wrist, and she refilled it for him. “Roman’s dead,” he grated at last, and drank again as if the sentence had exhausted him.

  She said nothing.

  “He killed him.” Another drink.

  Sophie didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was.

  “Sam wasn’t there. Stupid fucking idiot made sure of that. Spent his whole life taking care of Sam, never looked out for himself. If he’d had back-up…” Another drink, breathing turning ragged. “If I’d been there…”

  “He’d have kept you safe too,” Sophie said gently. “Or asked you to keep Sam safe.”

  “We weren’t there. He… He took on Roman alone. We weren’t there.”

Sophie reached out to squeeze his arm comfortingly and he jerked out of reach. She bit her lip, then got a second shot glass from the bar and poured herself a drink. The initial overwhelming urge for violence was gone. They had time.

  “Tell me about that first job,” she said, her voice carefully clear of sympathy or compassion.

  “There was no job. Not for me, anyhow. I was visiting an army friend in South Dakota. Out of nowhere our old sergeant appeared. Steve pulled a shotgun and shot him in the chest with salt rounds, and he fucking vanished. Just… poof, gone. I thought I was drunk or dreaming. Then he flickered back. Steve chucked me a bag of salt and yelled to pour lines of it across the door and windows. I ran for the door. Next thing I know, I’m on my ass with this dude on top of me and the Sarge reaching for where my chest had been.” Eliot took another drink, slower this time. “Sam came in behind him, of course, and they started doing this weird ritual shit with chanting and herbs. Dean set fire to a chair at one point, which Steve wasn’t too pleased about after. Anyway, it worked. The Sarge went back to resting in peace and I got a crash course in hunting.”

  “You stayed with them,” Sophie said, refilling.

  “They were trying to stop the apocalypse and I had nothing better to do.” One hand tightened round the glass. “And… he needed someone. He’d just got back from Hell, and Sam had no idea how to cope, how could he, but I… I mean, the Middle East isn’t exactly on the same level but… And it felt so damn good to be _needed_. By anyone. Like I was important, I mattered. But needed by him? He's a goddamn hero.” Another drink, swallowing down the sudden waver in his voice. “I mean, he's an asshole. An arrogant, pie-obsessed, alcoholic asshole with fucking awful taste in music and an unhealthy attachment to that fucking car. And every damn day he gets... he got up, cracked terrible jokes, saved lives, and saw Hell in the mirror.”

Sophie swallowed. This time, when she reached out, Eliot didn’t flinch away. This kind of pain couldn’t be healed with platitudes; there was nothing she could say that would make him feel better, ease the loss. All she could do was offer the support of her presence, so he wasn’t alone. As Dean had been when he died.

  “I’ll come with you to the funeral,” she said at last.

  Eliot shuddered minutely. “Nothing left to burn,” he managed. And then, very quietly, “Hunters always burn.”

  “Oh, Eliot…” Sophie blinked back the tears.

For some reason that seemed to brace him. He shook her hand free, sat up and drained his glass for the final time. His face was flushed, eyes very dark, but there was an outer shell of composure. He even made a twisted, aching attempt at a smile.

  “Hey. No chick flick moments.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This assumes a slightly AU version of events in SPN s04e04 "Metamorphosis", in which the Winchesters found out Jack Montague's wife was pregnant.

_Three years earlier_

Dean closed the motel door with a bit more force than he’d meant to. It had been a long job, dealing with Jack Montague, and Eliot had been awful quiet on the drive back. Since Sam was apparently not up for talking about his whole Jedi-style-demon-exorcism thing, and for some reason was pissed at Dean for not understanding why he’d been using his psychic powers, that made for a tense and silent car. (Dean did understand, saving the lives of the possessed was great, but nothing was worth the cost of his brother’s soul.)

He was feeling just as on edge as he usually did before a fight, which was ridiculous. Sam and Eliot were the two people he trusted most, aside from Bobby. He shouldn’t be this tense around them.

  The slamming door brought Eliot out from the bathroom with a frown. “What the hell, man?”

  Dean spread his arms. “You tell me. You haven’t said two words since we left Carthage.”

  Eliot dragged a hand down over his mouth and didn’t answer immediately. “What happened today,” he said at last, reluctantly. “That family…”

  “I know burning’s not pleasant, but it’s the only way to kill a rugaru.” Dean pushed a smile, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Still sounds like a made-up word to me, even after meeting one.”

  Eliot’s expression didn’t change. “Sam shot a pregnant woman in the head.”

  “It was fast. She wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

  “You don’t get it.” He took a step forward, fists tightening, and Dean straightened up. “He shot a pregnant woman, Dean. Not a monster. An innocent human."

  Dean swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “The baby would’ve turned, just like Jack did. History repeating itself. You know that, El. Yeah, it sucks, and I hate that it was necessary, but every war has collateral damage.”

  Eliot rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “Collateral damage.”

  “Sometimes we just gotta suck it up and do what needs to be done. Otherwise, the people who die in the fallout? That’s on our hands too.”

Eliot let out a long, tired sigh and sat down on the bed, shoulders slumped. Dean felt a chill prickle across his shoulders. Eliot had three settings: happy, pissed off and stoic. Sad Eliot was new and Dean didn’t like it. He took a seat next to him, shoulders brushing, and glanced at him sideways.

  “Talk to me.”

  “This war you’re fighting… It’s not like anything I’ve fought before. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done some bad shit in my time. But something like that…” He shook his head slowly. “I can’t, man. I’ve lost enough pieces already. I can’t walk down that road.”

  Dean clasped his hands together, focused on them hard. His head felt fuzzy. “What’re you saying?”

  “I’m not strong enough to do what you guys do. I can’t kill innocent women and children in cold blood. And I can’t stand by and watch you do it, either.”

  “You’re leaving,” Dean said, his voice sounding oddly calm and distant.

Eliot didn’t answer. Oh God, he was. Dean should’ve seen it coming. Why would a man like Eliot stick around someone as broken as him? Who would choose a life of crappy motel rooms and cheap diners; a lover who woke every night in a cold sweat, filled with nightmares of Hell; constantly searching out things that wanted to rip his spleen out with their teeth? It was surprising he’d stuck around this long.

Dean was used to giving up things. He’d been doing it since the age of four. It was basically a habit by now. But he found, with a sudden sick drop in his stomach, that he wasn’t prepared to give up this. He needed Eliot. He’d come back, head full of screams, to a world of angels and destiny and apocalypses. No Sammy to lean on (off doing his own thing with that bitch Ruby), no solid ground beneath his feet. If it hadn’t been for Eliot, he’d have ended up sitting in a corner, hugging his knees and rocking. He needed him. He loved him.

Fuck. He loved him.

The realisation hit him like a salt round to the chest, breathless and stinging. For a moment he flashed back to the four long, empty, achingly lonely years when Sam was at Stanford. He hadn’t fought that, driving his brother to the bus stop with a smile and all the cash he could scrape together, never letting on how much it hurt because you did what was best for the people you loved. But then he’d been whole, mind untainted and shoulders unbowed. He wasn’t that man anymore.

  “Please,” he said, hoarse and shaking. He cupped a hand round Eliot’s face, turning it into his. “Please. You can’t.”

Eliot’s eyes were wide, filling the world with sky-blue. He opened his mouth to reply and Dean covered it hurriedly, reaching for the gentle warmth that had kept him sane, made him feel human again. Their tongues met, curling hungrily, and Eliot’s fingers came up to grip the back of his neck. The familiar strength sent a shiver of need down his spine and he shifted to straddle Eliot’s lap, pressing close. Eliot’s other hand slid up under his shirt to trace the curve of his hip. He ground down, rubbing their filling erections together in a spark of pleasure-bright static, and Eliot groaned.

  “Dean…”

  “Stay with me,” he whispered, burying both hands in the softness of Eliot’s hair and diving into another kiss.

Eliot returned it fiercely, all hard lips and scraping teeth. His grip tightened and he rolled them, pushing Dean into the mattress, holding him down. Dean stretched out under the arch of Eliot’s body, the sensation of being wanted and protected rushing through him like a drug. He wrestled Eliot’s shirt up over his head, making the warm silk of his skin free to roam. His fingers lingered over the dips of scars, scattered like constellations over Eliot’s body. He’d never before had a lover with life written onto his body in the same way as Dean, who didn’t stare or ask stupid questions. He loved Eliot’s scars, pressing open-mouthed kisses to any in reach.

Eliot managed to get rid of the rest of their clothes in short order, amongst growled orders to “move, dammit”, and shoved a pillow under Dean’s hips. Then he sat back on his heels, face flushed and panting a little.

  “We’re doing this my way.”

Dean nodded, blood rushing through his body and pooling heavily in his groin. He would do whatever Eliot wanted if it meant keeping him. He let his head drop back and closed his eyes, skin tense and tingling.

The first touch drifted feather-light up the inside of his calf and he twitched. Eliot hushed him gently and continued to brush delicate fingers over his ankles, wrists, collarbone, each one moving to an unexpected place, making him tremble. More and more, on and on, until he felt like a guitar string, tense and humming, poised on the edge of music. Eliot’s hands gravitated slowly to centre on his groin, running down the crease of his thigh, tracing the curve of his balls, whispering up his shaft. Dean bit down on a groan and pushed into the touch, needing more. One finger slid down between his legs to press gently against his hole, and the throbbing need built swiftly.

The heat of Eliot’s mouth on his tip brought Dean arching off the bed with a gasp. Molten silver flooded through his veins, pure and bright and burning. Slowly, so slowly, Eliot took him in, tongue wrapping lazily around him, swallowing him down until he nudged the back of Eliot’s throat and felt the hum of approval shock through his body like electricity. His hands moved of their own accord, diving into Eliot’s hair and holding him close as Dean fought to stay still.

More pressure at his hole, slick and circling, massaging the muscle until he relaxed, knees falling wide and inviting. One finger slipped in, slow, smooth, stroking him open with gentle patience, whilst Eliot slid off his cock and took him deep again. Dean pushed his head back into the mattress, held down by Eliot’s hands, the tenderness tearing through his chest. He didn’t deserve such care, wasn’t sure he could take it, but he’d hang on to it for as long as possible.

Eliot opened him up slowly, mouth moving from cock to rim, until he was shivering and gasping, eyes open but seeing only pinpricks of light, and the crest of the wave was roaring in his ears. Then those wonderful fingers withdrew and Eliot breached him, filled him, one slow, sure glide of heat that drove the breath from Dean’s lungs and the tears from his eyes. His wrists were pinned to the mattress as Eliot covered him, back rippling with long, easy strokes, and the pressure was building, building, he needed more, couldn’t contain what there was, the wave curling high above him with a threat and a promise. Then Eliot shifted his hips, changing the angle, and Dean shouted as lightening punched through him, and again, and again, he was lit up, blazing, alive and alight, the agonising sweetness in his chest too much to bear, he was seizing under it, flooding out in breathless release, shuddering around Eliot until he too stuttered and groaned and sank into stillness.

Dean let his pulse ease back down into the low 70s before he moved, easing Eliot off him and walking stiffly to the bathroom. He leaned on the edge of the sink and avoided looking in the mirror. He felt raw, cracked open, in a way Hell had never achieved. No man should have to face himself in such a state.

He cleaned himself with brisk efficiency, ran a cloth under the hot tap and went back into the bedroom. Eliot was sprawled face-down on the covers, hair messy and tumbled over the pillow, breathing deep and even. Dean eased him onto his back with soft reassurances, wiping him down gently, and tugged the covers free. Then he slid in beside him and dropped a kiss on his forehead.

  “Stay with me,” he breathed, curling an arm over Eliot’s ribs as he drifted towards sleep. “You have to stay.”

* * *

 

Dean was rudely awakened by Sam hammering on the door.

  “Guys! Time to go! If you’re not out in ten I’m leaving your asses!”

Dean sat up blearily, wincing against the light filtering through the thin motel curtains. Eliot grunted and burrowed deeper into the pillow, face turned away. With dire thoughts on the punishments in store for little brothers, Dean staggered into the bathroom and shoved his head under the shower. The cold water brought him painfully awake. He scrubbed roughly at his face, towelled off, and went in search of clean clothes.

  “El,” he said, chucking the damp towel at the bed. “Hey, man, rise and shine.” There was a clean-ish Henley in his bag, and yesterday’s jeans weren’t too bad. He pulled them on and bent down to retrieve his boots from under the desk. “Come on, dude, I need coffee.”

When he straightened up, Eliot was propped up on one elbow, making no move towards getting dressed. Dean’s breathe seized painfully in his chest.

  “You’re not coming.”

  “No.”

  “Where you gonna go?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Maybe L.A.”

Dean nodded, mind blank. He'd begged last night with his entire body. There was nothing left to say. He stood for a long moment, utterly without impetus, until the sound of the Impala’s horn reminded him Sam was waiting. He picked up his bag automatically.

  “Dean…” Eliot’s face twisted.

  Dean pasted on a grin, ignoring the vice around his heart. “Hey, no chick flick moments.”

Then he hoisted the duffel more firmly over his shoulder, gave the man in his bed (not his bed, not any more) a cheerful little salute, and closed the door firmly between them. Make it easy, make it sweet, never let on how much it hurt. Because that’s what you did for the people you loved.

You did what was best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally intended to be the end of the story, but I reckon I might get lynched if I leave it at that. So there will be one final chapter. Hold off on the pitchforks for now, chaps.


	9. Epilogue

Sophie played with the stem of her wine glass and thought again about Nate’s proposal. In principle, she was fully on board with the two of them retiring together and handing the reins of Leverage Inc to Parker. But in practice the success of that plan depended on Eliot being his old solid-rock self, weighing the others down into practical sanity. Despite a commendable effort to appear functional over the last 18 months, Sophie knew a performance when she saw one. Eliot was hollow and cracking. She couldn't, in good conscience, walk away from the disaster-in-waiting that represented.

  “You guys are tough to track down,” a deep, pleased voice growled in her ear.

She spun in her seat, jaw dropping in astonishment. Dean Winchester stood there, thinner than he had been, more tanned, wilder, with gelled hair and a clean red shirt and a wide white grin.

   _What big teeth you’ve got…_  “You’re dead,” was what she actually managed to say.

  “Rumours of, yadda yadda. It gets easier with practice.” He looked past her to the ‘Staff Only’ door. “Is El here?”

Sophie’s shock translated smoothly into anger. Her friend had been falling silently to pieces in mourning, and all the while this arrogant bastard had been alive and well. Now, when it was convenient to him, he swanned in and just assumed Eliot would still be his.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she demanded. “Would it have killed you to call and let him know you were okay?”

  “Not a whole lotta cell reception down in Dunmonsterin’,” he said flippantly, and moved towards the door.

  Sophie slid out of her seat and put a hand on his chest. “Are you going to stay this time? Because if not…”

Dean turned his focus back to her and her sentence trailed off. She remembered the greenness of his eyes. But the raw hunger and fierce threat, that was new. Wherever he’d been, it had stripped civilization from him until only the thinnest veneer of charm was left. This was not the man she’d met before. This was the man who killed Dick Roman and came back again.

   _What big eyes you’ve got…_ She withdrew her hand abruptly.

  “Is he here?” Dean asked again, voice dropping into a growl.

She was saved from having to answer by Eliot coming out from the kitchen, head down over a shopping list.

  “Sophie, we’re out of…”

He stopped, every muscle tensing. His face flushed dark and his chest moved rapidly. Dean pushed Sophie to one side with absent-minded strength and took a step forwards.

  “Hey.”

Eliot crumpled the shopping list and hurled it at Dean, who caught it reflexively. Eliot used the distraction to dive behind the bar. He came up with a soda gun in one hand and a plastic bottle in the other. The contents of the bottle splashed across Dean’s chest and a stream of what looked like water hit him in the face. He raised an arm to shield his eyes.

  “I’m not a demon, El! Or a leviathan, or a revenant.”

  Eliot lowered the tap slowly, eyes narrowed. “Then what the hell are you?”

  “Just me.” Dean wiped his face, grin creeping back. “Dude, did you put holy water in that soda gun?”

  The blood drained from Eliot’s expression. “Sam said you were gone.”

  “Yeah. To Purgatory. By the time I’d crawled outta Hell’s armpit, you’d moved and changed your number. Been tracking you down ever since.” Dean spread his arms. “Aren’t you gonna say hello?”

Eliot’s eyes narrowed. He put down the bottle deliberately and came around the front of the bar. Sophie pressed herself back up against a wall, pulse racing as Eliot used the three paces between him and Dean to pick up speed, ramming his shoulder into Dean’s stomach and tackling him to the ground. Dean toppled backwards with a shout, knocking over Sophie’s stool. Eliot straddled his chest, one knee pinning his shoulder, and rained punches down.

  “You bastard! You stupid, crazy, self-sacrificing, fucking lunatic bastard!”

Sophie heard Dean’s nose break and red smeared across his mouth. It took her a few seconds to realise he was laughing. He caught Eliot’s wrists and held him with a quiver of effort.

  “I missed you too.”

Then he twisted one hand into Eliot’s hair and pulled him down into a fierce, biting kiss. Sophie licked her lips and took a quick inventory of the bar’s customers, all of whom were staring with various expressions of shock and confusion. A couple of them had their cells out, poised to call the cops. She sidled up to the men on the floor and cleared her throat pointedly.

  “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt but people are eating. Could we maybe take this through to the back?” Eliot pulled away, breathing fast and hair mussed, and got to his feet. Dean glared up at Sophie. “Oh, grow up,” she said.  

  Unexpectedly the grin flashed back. “Yeah, I can see why Sam likes you.”

  “Where is Sam, anyway?” she asked, looking towards the window in the expectation of seeing a long black car parked outside.

  “Down in Kansas.” He propped himself up on both elbows, crossed his ankles, and eyed Eliot hungrily. “We got a place of our own now. It’s fucking awesome. Room for all the family. Totally untraceable, which makes it perfect for you guys to do your thing. There’s even a library so Sam and Hardison can get their geek on. Whaddya say?”

Eliot turned his back and took several steps away, running both hands through his hair. Dean rolled to his feet, the raw edge bleeding into something unexpectedly vulnerable. Sophie caught her breath. Maybe Eliot hadn’t been the only one hurting.

  Dean clenched one fist until the knuckles gleamed. “Please,” he said very softly.

  Eliot stood still for a long moment, then slowly turned to face him with a tight expression. “Never again,” he said through gritted teeth. “Promise me. No more crazy-ass stunts like this. Or you can walk out that door right now.”

Happiness lit up Dean’s face, so pure and unrestrained that Sophie’s throat clenched on sudden tears. He came close, treading softly, and reached up to cup Eliot’s jaw in far gentler fingers.

 “My word as a Winchester,” he said, lowering his lips. “It’s Sammy’s turn, anyhow.”

   _It’s going to be okay_ , Sophie thought with dawning relief, watching the tender kiss unknot Eliot’s shoulders for the first time in eighteen months. _He’s going to be okay. Nate and I can retire after all. They’re all going to be okay._

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving kudos. It makes writers happy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I read it in the line of your hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6598405) by [O4amuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/O4amuse/pseuds/O4amuse)




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